ere of much avail; and it seemed, for a time, as though
the earthly course of "the Golden Shoemaker" was almost run. There came a
day when the doctors confessed that they could do no more. A few hours
must decide the question of life or death. Dreadful was the suspense in
the stricken house, and great the sorrow in many hearts outside. Mr.
Durnford, who had been summoned early in the morning, remained to await
the issue of the day. Little Tommy Dudgeon, who had been informed that the
crisis was near, came, and lingered about the house, on one pretence or
another, unable to tear himself away.

But how was it with "the Golden Shoemaker" himself? From the first, he had
been calm and patient; and, even now, when he was confronted with the
grim visage of death, he did not flinch. Long accustomed to leave the
issues of his life to God, willing to live yet prepared to die, he
realized his position without dismay. No doctor ever had a more tractable
patient than was "Cobbler" Horn; and he yielded himself to his nurses like
an infant of days. In the earlier stages of his illness, he had thought
much about the mysterious words and strange behaviour of his friend Tommy
Dudgeon, on the day on which he had been taken ill. Further consideration
had not absolutely confirmed "Cobbler" Horn's first impression as to the
meaning of the little huckster's words. Pondering them as he lay in bed,
he had become less sure that his humble little friend had intended simply
to suggest the admirable fitness of the young secretary to take the place
of his lost child. Surely, he had thought, the impassioned exclamation of
the eccentric little man must have borne some deeper significance than
that! And then he had become utterly bewildered as to what meaning the
singular words of Tommy Dudgeon had been intended to convey. And then
there came a glimmering--nothing more--of the idea his faithful friend had
wished to impart. But, just when he might have penetrated the mystery, if
he could have thought it out a little more, he became too ill to think at
all.

After this his mind wandered slightly, and once or twice a strange fancy
beset him that his little Marian was in the room, and that she was putting
her soft hands on his forehead; but, in a moment, the fancy was gone, and
he was aware that the young secretary was laying her cool gentle palm upon
his burning brow.

It had been a wonderful comfort to the girl that she had been permitted to
take a spe